


We're After the Same Rainbow's End

by Page161of180



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst that used to be fluff but is rendered tragic by subsequent events, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memories, Mosaic Timeline, post-4x05, post-4x06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 22:44:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17989916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Page161of180/pseuds/Page161of180
Summary: “Why was I-- ?” Q ran a hand through his hair. Brian had left him with so much less to hide behind. He hunched his shoulders to make up for it. “It’s just . . . something people do, I guess. They sing, sometimes.”“A game? Another game? Is that why you were--”Q suppressed a cringe. “No. Not a game.”Post 4x05/4x06. On opposite sides of a locked door, the song remains the same.





	We're After the Same Rainbow's End

**Author's Note:**

> Post 4x06. I have truly never posted *anything* before, but this ship has overwhelmed me and the fandom has inspired. Thanks for joining me on this maiden voyage. 
> 
> I, obviously, own nothing that you recognize here. Just grateful to be playing in the sandbox.

Eliot . . . didn’t _ allow _ himself to come here often. 

 

Sure, he’d done  _ some  _ exploring since that first journey beyond the happy place (or, as he now thought of it, the place where he’d laid around getting high while a monster wore him like a suit and tailed his friends-- and,  _ oh _ , look, another entry for the Chalkboard of Shame). But frankly, the sheer quantity of bitching from Charlton--still recuperating, still improbably chatty about  _ Lost _ \--every time he ventured out was a barrier in itself, to say nothing of the shadow-beak-death  _ creatures  _ that still lurked in every memory. 

 

The doorway ( _ the feel of the wood grain under his fingers, the handle that always stuck after it rained, You just need to pull  _ in  _ as you lift up, El, honestly, how can you still not-- Hold on, you’re going to fuck it up worse. Here, you hold the baby, let me _ \--) had been a one-time escape hatch, apparently, so there was no pressing  _ need  _ for him to leave the Physical Cottage now. No pressing need to do anything, really, except wait and try half-heartedly to convince himself that the two seconds he’d managed to wrest control of his body were the only two seconds that the unkillable monster currently hijacking that body was in arms’ reach of a magicless, armorless, clearly-panicking-on-the-inside Q. 

 

Still, he got out, now and again, with the help of his personal memory protection squad. He’d seen his mom, again, watching the classic movie channel after dark with her curly-haired little boy. That had been almost  _ nice _ , until he started wondering exactly when the switch had flipped in her head and it suddenly became a  _ problem  _ having a son with decided opinions on Audrey Hepburn in the hot-pink beaded Givenchy versus the classic black with pearls. 

 

After the ensuing carnage, he’d given Indiana memories a wide berth. 

 

Instead, he’d watched a rumpled nerd in a tragic blazer stumble through Brakebills’ wards more times than he was comfortable admitting-- enough times that any plausible deniability about the tremor that went through the fingers holding Eliot’s cigarette the moment he got his first real glimpse of those puppy-dog eyes was _ long _ gone. 

 

_ Here _ , though. He didn’t come  _ here _ . Or, he did. But only when couldn’t ignore the actual, physical ache any longer. And even then, only with extreme precautions. Tonight, it was Kady--admittedly, not exactly in his inner sanctum IRL, but sometimes one needed a professional--leading the claw-beak- _ things _ on a homicidal chase through he and Margo’s first Encanto Oculto. He could still only let himself stay for a few minutes, though. The creatures would come, eventually, no matter how much battle magic Memory-Kady threw, and he had to be gone by then. There were some scenes he couldn’t bear to witness torn to shreds, figment of his memory or not.

 

It always surprised him how dark it could be here, when he made his way back. At his castle, Fillorian nights had always seemed brighter than on Earth, and louder, what with all the people with problems who never seemed to go away. But out in the woods, the trees blocked everything out. Inside their little cabin, where he stood now, there were no lights at all, not even the embers of a fire in the hearth-- it wasn’t necessary on a summer night like this one. 

 

The door (the  _ door _ ) was ajar and the window open, so he could  _ hear  _ the man--himself, or, rather,  _ formerly _ himself--sitting in the dirt outside, even if he couldn’t  _ see _ . He didn’t  _ need  _ to see to remember-- his legs stretched out on the old patchwork quilt, the little boy warm and curled against his chest, finally breathing evenly, tear tracks drying. Right now, Memory-Eliot would be allowing himself a surreptitious sniff of the fine, mousy hair (that  _ same exact  _ color), as he sang about ‘ _ crossing you in style, someday _ ’ for the thirtieth or fortieth time, unwilling to stop in case that tiny breath hitched again, or another tear track formed. 

 

It had been a little over a year since they’d lost Arielle, but in some ways it was hitting Teddy harder now, as his understanding of the world grew to meet the enormity of their loss. He was almost old enough to want to squirm out of hugs during the day, but in the dark night, when the tears came, he was still a baby who wanted the night breeze on his wet cheeks and his Papa to sing him back to sleep. 

 

( Another, older memory shimmered briefly over the scene, like a watermark--

 

_ What do you want him to call you? Dad? Pop?  _ Quentin’s soft voice-- delirious, overwhelmed, the way he’d sounded placing a crown on Eliot’s head.

 

_ Please, God, anything but ‘Daddy.’ I do  _ not  _ need that cognitive dissonance _ .

 

Those bright eyes rolling, impossibly fond, all too aware of the quaver behind the joke. Then, Quentin tipping the tiny bundle closer.

 

_ Teddy. _  A hard swallow.  _Meet_ _ your Papa . . .  _

 

\--before fading away _. _ )

 

A gentle stirring in the little bed--cot, really--near the empty hearth pulled Eliot’s attention back, just as his--younger? Older? How did that work exactly?-- _ past  _ self started the song again outside. The melody followed Eliot as he kneeled down to bring himself eye-level with the form huddled under the light linen sheets that Arielle had practically convinced a travelling merchant to pay  _ them  _ to take off his hands. He reached out to smooth too-long hair out of drooping eyes, letting his thumb kiss the spot that it always wanted to be, where jaw and ear met. 

 

“ _ Hey, Q _ .” 

  
  
  


 

 

“You’re singing.  _ Why _ .”

  
  
  


 

 

Memory-Q didn’t say anything. He never did. Just tilted his head, puppy-like. Confused.

  
  
  


 

 

“Jesus  _ fuck _ !” Q’s fingers, already numb from the bitterly cold New York night fumbled the cigarette he had been holding, as he jerked in surprise at the intrusion.

  
  
  


 

 

Eliot fussed at the crease left by the pillowcase along Memory-Q’s stubbled cheek. His fingertips brushed the whorl of an ear when Memory-Q turned toward the open door, where Memory-Eliot’s song drifted in.

 

“It’s okay,” Eliot said. “He-- I--  _ your _ Eliot”-- _ your Eliot _ \--”is still out there with Teddy.” 

 

Memory-Q turned back to him, dark eyes reflecting light that wasn’t really there. 

 

“This is a memory,” Eliot tried to explain, maybe to both of them. “I’m not really here. I just-- needed to see you.” 

  
  
  


 

 

“I . . . _ startled _ you.”

 

The monster . . .  _ thing _ . . . whatever, had apparated right beside Quentin on the balcony of Marina’s penthouse. One second, nothing but city lights and car horns and finally some solitude, then  _ poof _ . 

 

“Quentin.”

 

It put a hand-- _ his  _ hand--on Q’s shoulder, to . . . steady him, maybe? It didn’t squeeze, just folded the hand in an upside-down U and placed it over Q’s shoulder-- like it had tried to learn human affection from a chart. Its experiment with choking Quentin out had come much more naturally. Q was surprised there wasn’t some  _ sense memory  _ or something in the hand that could guide it through this seemingly simpler task. El had been forever petting and fussing--

 

_ No _ , he told himself.  _ Not thinking about that. _

 

Never that.

  
  
  


 

 

Memory-Q nodded at Eliot’s words, but nothing in his face said that he understood what Eliot was saying. Outside, Memory-Eliot’s verse tripped over a sudden smoker’s cough--it was still a decade or so before the side-quest to Chatwin’s Torrent that would stop Q from finding that final tile a lot sooner--before rising up again, softer and a little hoarse. 

 

Memory-Q’s face turned back toward the door, toward his partner’s song, like a sunflower, like a moth.

  
  
  


 

 

“ _ Quentin _ .”

 

The monster repeated itself, more insistent this time. Less of a question. That couldn’t be good. Q made himself rotate toward the thing in Eliot’s body.

 

“Sorry,” he said, not  even almost meaning it. “Yeah. You-- startled me.”

 

“I’m . . .  _ sorry _ .”

 

The monster tried the word like it was tasting something new, lingering on the hissing ‘s.’ 

 

Q made himself swallow down the hot burst of anger. This  _ you’re sorry for? Taking-- Telling me he was--  _ That’s  _ all fine, but making me drop my cigarette? Finally a bridge too far for you? _

 

“It’s fine,” he said instead. He hated the sound of his voice anymore, like he was reading a picture book to a serial killer. Except for the moments he couldn’t take it anymore and threatened to rain down destruction they both knew would never be able to touch this ancient  _ thing  _ anyway. “How was your thing with. . . Bastet?”

 

Q hazarded a glance upward toward the Monster’s face, focusing just below eye-level ( _ never  _ directly in the eyes, only when absolutely desperate) to check whether it caught his stumble. It was getting hard to keep track of where they were in the monster’s growing pantheon of revenge, these days. 

 

It just grinned. Gruesome. Childlike. “She’s. Being.  _ Tricky _ but you don’t have to worry about it Quentin I will find her and I will get what she took.” 

 

The last part came out in a tumble, no spaces between the words. It was so different than El, in every way that counted, but sometimes Q caught echoes, a cadence-- 

 

( _ I’m going to tell you something deep and dark and personal ready good okay I _ \--)

 

“You didn’t answer my question.” The voice had steadied itself. Stubborn and plodding, again. Demanding.

 

Q sighed. “What, uh. What question was that? Again?”

 

“You were  _ singing _ . By yourself, out here.  _ Why _ .”

  
  
  


 

 

Eliot knew he only had another minute or two here-- at most. He let himself lean against the side of the little bed anyway, tucking his legs beneath him on the bare floor, like this was just one night of a lifetime’s worth and he could say whatever meaningless thing came into his mind,  _ instead of the things he never said _ , until they fell asleep mid-sentence. 

 

“My mom used to like that song,” he said, gesturing toward the open door and the music floating through with his chin. “She liked the movie. Apparently, she liked me, too, once. Go figure. I suppose her affection for Audrey Hepburn proved more durable. I can’t entirely blame her.”

 

He reached back absently, letting his fingers tangle with Memory-Q’s where they were hanging off the side of the pallet.

 

“Sorry. Rambling.”

  
  
  


 

 

“Why was I-- ?” Q ran a hand through his hair. Brian had left him with so much less to hide behind. He hunched his shoulders to make up for it. “It’s just . . . something people do, I guess. They sing, sometimes.”

 

“A game? Another game? Is that why you were--”

 

Q suppressed a cringe. “ _ No _ . Not a game.”

 

“Then  _ why _ .”

  
  
  


 

“I don’t really have a script for what I want to say here, Q. Obviously.” 

 

Memory-Q’s fingers were warm against Eliot’s own, the pads calloused from handling the rough edges of mosaic tiles, day in and day out.  _ The beauty of all life.  _

 

“Most of what I want to say is really for the other Q. The  _ now _ -Q,” he clarified. “The one who’s trapped out there with that  _ thing _ \--”

  
  
  


 

 

“I don’t know, I can’t really explain it. It’s just a  _ thing  _ people  _ do _ . When they’re bored. Or they’re . . . . lonely, or--”

  
  
  


 

 

The rustle of wind in the trees outside was getting louder, loud enough to start to drown out Memory-Eliot’s lullabye. Soon it would be impossible to pretend it was anything other than the flapping of wings.

 

_ Just one more minute _ , Eliot begged nothing.

 

Feeling frantic, he brought Memory-Q’s knuckles to his lips. “I know this won’t make much sense to you, but I can’t tell  _ him _ , so. Please be careful. Don’t do anything insanely self-sacrificing. I know it goes against everything in your nature, but  _ please  _ try to stay alive until I can get out of here and find you again.”

  
  
  


 

 

“You can’t be  _ lonely _ ,” the monster interrupted. “You’re not alone. You have  _ me _ . Your friend.”

 

The monster blinked and Q screwed his eyes shut, fighting down the sudden staticky rush of memory feedback. 

 

( _ I’m trying to tell you,  _ you are not--)

 

“Right. Of course not.”

 

“So then why--”

  
  
  


 

The sweet, blank look on Memory-Q’s face nearly killed Eliot, but he made himself give back Q’s hand and make his way across the room to the door, knowing that this time it would lead him not out  _ there  _ where he needed to be, but only back to the un-fucking-happy place. 

He  _ knew _ he had to go through, but he paused just before touching the warped wood, dreading the moment that it would melt away under his touch to become the pristine front door to the Physical Kids’ Cottage. Smooth.  _ Wrong _ . Not even marred by the hole that Q and Alice had burned into it, a lifetime ago. 

 

 

 

 

“Does there have to be a  _ reason _ ?” Q could feel the anger rising again, knew at some level he should try to push it down, but couldn’t make himself care enough to try. “Can’t I just have one thing--  _ one thing _ \-- that isn’t . . .  _ corrupted _ . . . by all of this, this--”

  
  
  


 

 

Eliot could feel the gnarled wood grain on the tips of his fingers. He closed his eyes, preparing himself for the blinding light of the Cottage in summertime to flood his senses, eclipsing this small, dark world that was the only place he had ever been brave enough to  _ choose  _ the man he  _ adored _ .

 

He stole one last look over his shoulder at Q in their bed, eyes on the window,  _ waiting _ .

 

“He’ll be in soon, Q,” Eliot said, voice unsteady, like he was already far away. “He _ loves _ you. He should have _ said _ it.  _ I _ \--”

 

But then a shrieking caw tore the night, and Eliot closed his eyes and wrenched himself through the door.

 

When he opened his eyes again, home was gone, as he knew it would be. He took a breath and told himself it was the bright summer sun making his eyes sting-- not the wild longing for just one more ( _ lifetime _ ), one more  _ minute _ .

  
  
  


 

 

The monster was even deeper in Q’s personal space now, hunching down to study his face, trying to puzzle out why it was that Q’s head was pounding, why he could hardly breathe. Why it was so  _ upsetting  _ for him to look into El’s eyes and see an evil, god-killing  _ thing  _ that wanted more and more of Q-- of his time and his attention and just . . .   _ him _ \-- when  _ El _ hadn’t even wanted--

 

Q made himself take a deep breath. He’d come to the balcony for air. He’d just needed some  _ air _ . But something about the stillness of the night and the longing in his chest ( _ I’m  _ alive  _ in here _ ) had gotten to him and he’d let himself wander back into their past. Just for a minute. The truth was, the song had been on his lips without any conscious decision, traveling directly from memory to mouth, without bothering to ask his brain for the all-clear.

 

“It’s okay, Quentin.” The monster was petting at his arm now, clumsy and too hard. “You can sing to  _ me _ now.”

 

He laughed, but it sounded like a sob. Or maybe he sobbed, but it sounded like a laugh. 

 

The monster frowned. “That’s a thing that friends do, isn’t it. Singing songs.”

 

_ Friends _ . Q nodded, biting his lip to stop the trembling. 

 

“What do you want me to sing?” he finally asked, hoarse. 

 

“The song you were singing  _ before _ . The one that makes you make the face like you’re thinking about  _ him _ .”

 

Q opened his mouth to protest, but the monster went on. “I might get  _ bored  _ again. If you don’t.”

 

Its all-teeth smile was the answer to Q’s earlier rhetorical question. Of _course_ there could be nothing of his and El’s that would go uncorrupted by this series of disasters that Q had set into motion-- _again_. How the fuck could he have let himself imagine otherwise?

 

The monster nuzzled Eliot’s head against Q’s shoulder, let Eliot’s hair tickle Q’s neck, and Q forced himself to open his mouth. The melody wobbled, but the words were as familiar to him as Jane Chatwin meeting the Watcherwoman for the first time.

 

It was funny. Q had never heard the song before the quest, had never even seen whatever old movie it was from. 

 

(Eliot’s sheer  _ outrage _ at that disclosure. The threat to make Q and Ari sit through a frame-by-frame remake in mosaic tiles.

 

_ You really think that Audrey Hepburn eating a danish is the beauty of all life? _

 

_ I think that Audrey scooping Cat up out of the rain and tucking him into her perfect trench because she needs him after all is the beauty of all life.  _ Fight _ me on it, Coldwater _ .)

 

Now, the old song brought him back. To endless late-night lullabyes, Q listening from inside the cabin as El’s rich tenor went hoarse and tender. Only pretending to sleep, letting the peace in the sound wash away all the grief and frustration. Knowing in his _bones_ that destiny, for all that it was bullshit, had chosen the two of them for this impossible puzzle for a _reason_ \-- because even after all the too-tight hugs and lingering looks, somehow it had taken a life out of time ( _proof of concept_ ) for Q to finally see that there was no righter place for him in any timeline than inside the fierce, familiar arms that were busy rocking their _son_. 

 

_ Had El known _ ? Q wondered suddenly, desperately. _ If he  _ had _ , would he have _ \--

 

The monster exhaled heavily, giving up more of its weight to Q. It felt . . . shockingly normal. As if it was exhausted not from whatever horrifying dismemberments it had performed before it popped in here, but simply from a long day’s work ( _ up the ladder, placing tiles, chasing Teddy, making dinner _ \--).

 

Q knew that pretending was deadly. But the ache was so fucking bad, like a brand on his lungs, and sometimes he felt like he’d  _ break  _ if he couldn’t just  _ get away _ , for a few minutes--

 

“Quentin. You stopped singing.”

 

“Sorry,” Q whispered. 

 

_ Just for a minute _ , he told himself, as he closed his eyes and started the song again. 

 

And even though it was too cold, and too bright, and the voice in his ears was his own, thin and pitchy, he let himself  _ imagine _ . That he was back in that shitty little bed, in that creaky little cabin, that hadn’t been a trap, but a  _ gift _ \-- for him, anyway. 

 

Any minute now, El would finish up the song. He would walk through that finicky old door. He’d tuck Teddy in and then he’d come to their bed and press himself against Q’s back, nose to neck, tight enough that it almost felt like  _ I love you _ . He would hold Q. Close. And they could both finally rest.

 

Just for a minute. Just for the night. 

 

Just for another fifty years. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The song referenced throughout (and the source of the title) is "Moon River," from the classic film "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Why, you ask? Because Eliot Waugh has a deep and profound spiritual connection to Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly, and Q is a sweet, sad cat that should be scooped up out of the rain and clutched protectively to Holly/Eliot's chest. But that is a TED talk (and a completely gratuitous AU) for another day.


End file.
